


Once upon a time on the same side

by DAZzle_10



Series: Trans Owen Farrell [1]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Misgendering, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Trans Owen Farrell, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 04:02:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17073101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Wherein Owen Farrell is 10 years old, trans, and trying to figure himself out, struggling with his parents' lack of knowledge, his own underexposure to people like him, and our old favourite, gender dysphoria.Chapter title is from another Coldplay song (I sense a growing trend... And yes, I wrote this to Coldplay and a little bit of Imagine Dragons): Princess of China. You might understand why I chose it if you look up the lyrics; I'm not sure.





	Once upon a time on the same side

**Author's Note:**

> Well... I'm not sure what to say other than that Owen has always reminded me of most trans masculine people I know in some of his mannerisms (including myself) and someone suggested that I should try writing it. I thought it would take me a lot longer than this - there's probably a lot more to come, to be fair, because it's been very therapeutic and I have lots of ideas - but this was written... Actually, I don't remember if I started it on Tuesday (I was going to say 'yesterday', but it's actually Thursday now, so...) or Wednesday. It didn't take that long, anyway, though maybe I would have fiddled with it a bit more if I didn't just want to get it out. 
> 
> What is it with me and posting things in the middle of the night? It's like I actually have an aversion to doing things at a healthy time of day... Also, found out a few hours ago that Channel 5 are showing the Sarries v Exeter game, which makes it TWO weekends in a row that I can actually *watch* Sarries play, rather than relying on their twitter updates. 
> 
> Y'know, quick plug of the RFU... They actually have a pretty good policy when it comes to transgender individuals. If you compare it to, I don't know, some other sporting unions *cough*SwimEngland*cough*, they're doing a fairly good job. Quite impressed, to be honest!
> 
> Erm, anyway... This needs some WARNINGS, so please read carefully:  
> There is a lot of misgendering, from Owen's own perspective and from his parents.  
> There are suicidal thought processes.  
> There is discussion of teen pregnancy and abortion.  
> There is gender dysphoria.  
> There is a young child in distress over his gender identity and the ensuing gender dysphoria.  
> IF ANY OF THE ABOVE IS LIKELY TO CAUSE YOU EMOTIONAL DISTRESS/HARM, PLEASE TAKE CARE OR DON'T READ. Also, if you're a transphobic asshole, please refer to the nearest self-help centre, most likely your mobile phone, where you can go on this amazing thing called Google and *educate* yourself before you bother reading this.
> 
> Obviously, I'm not implying anything about Owen Farrell or his family; this is just a work of fiction (It's also worth mentioning that I do NOT see his parents as villains in this. They are struggling to understand something which, at the time in which this is based, there would have been very little information about. In the end, they want what is best for their children. I also don't see them ever being deliberately transphobic in real life.)

Olivia has always had a close relationship with her dad. She’s always stuck closer to him, always been more interested in what he’s doing, in being like him. When she was little, she thought it was just because he plays rugby. It is, really. Rugby is… incredible. (It’s the one place where she can forget who she is, just throw herself into the game and _play_.) But maybe, just maybe, it’s also because she wants to be like him in a way that she’ll never manage, a way which has been barred off from her since before she was born.

Whatever the reason for it, he’s the one she goes to first with her problem. It’s a problem that’s been in her head for nearly a year, now, growing steadily louder in her thoughts, and it’s taken her a long time to put words to it, but she’s finally found clarity in it in the last few months, and the urge to tell people has been growing ever since.

“Dad,” she whispers, and her cheeks flush even though there’s no one else around and she hasn’t even said what she wants – _needs_ – to yet. “I, erm… I don’t really – I don’t really feel like a girl.”

By the time she’s stammered out the words, her voice has trailed off in mortification, barely audible to her own ears. Luckily, her dad makes her speech out well enough to turn away from the game on the TV and fix her with a frown.

“You _what_?” he asks, absolutely baffled. “You don’t feel like a – What do you mean, you don’t really feel like a girl?”

Unexpectedly, Olivia finds tears stinging in her eyes; she has to blink to clear them, unable to meet her dad’s stare as she twists her trembling fingers together.

“I just… I feel like a boy. Not a girl.”

She doesn’t know how she expects her dad to react, but the sigh he lets out isn’t it.

“Is this about rugby? Girls can play rugby too –”

“No!” Olivia interrupts, cheeks burning steadily brighter. “It’s not – It’s not about rugby. I just don’t feel like a girl.”

Her dad stares at her for another long moment.

“Right,” he says finally. “Don’t be silly, Liv.”

Apparently, that’s the end of the conversation. Olivia watches him turn back to the game, but can’t return her own focus to it. A sharp lump is stuck in her throat, stopping her from swallowing, and her hands won’t stay still. After a moment of trying to keep her eyes dry despite their rapid heating, she stands and flees the room.

It’s several days later – close to midnight, when the entire house is silent – that she sneaks out of her room and turns on the computer, settling in front of it and typing the words that she hasn’t dared to say aloud since her conversation with her dad into Netscape. She sits and stares at the computer for several hours, absorbing the few scraps of information that she can find among the irrelevant or sometimes disturbing results. She learns a lot – not all of it information she thinks she wanted to know – and by the end, she thinks she has something she can cling to. She spends another hour scrolling through baby names, writing down the ones she thinks she likes the most on a piece of paper.

A sound on the stairs makes her jump, and she tucks the paper away just before her dad appears in the doorway, staring tiredly at her and the screen.

“Liv…” he groans, exasperated. “Go to bed. Now.”

Olivia looks at him, then at the screen, then back at him.

“I’m not the only one,” she tells him quietly. “There are other people who feel the same way. They can live like the gender they feel, and –”

“I don’t want to hear another word of this nonsense,” her dad cuts her off sharply. “Bed. _Now_.”

She switches off the computer and goes, hands clenched tightly into fists around the piece of paper that she’s sure her dad would have taken from her immediately if she hadn’t hidden it. Safe in her room, lying on her bed in the dark as she stares blankly through the darkness to where she knows the ceiling should be, the relief that wells inside her is unmistakable.

She isn’t the only one, and that means that this can be real. This isn’t nonsense, this isn’t being silly. Deep down, she knows it – and she knows that she isn’t actually _she_ , either. It feels like a terrifying step to take the word ‘he’ and apply it even in _his_ own head, but… It fits. It fits, and he feels like crying with happiness, for once, because it feels so _right_ even if it is strange and new.

 _He_ can be a boy – he _is_ a boy, and his dad isn’t going to take that away from him, because it can’t be changed. The thought strikes fear in him for a second – it’s so uncontrollable, and he doesn’t like not being in control – but in a way, he _can_ control it. He just has to accept it, and then he has to make sure that everyone else does, too.

His dad doesn’t mention their late-night encounter in the morning, though Olivia finds himself on the receiving end of a flat stare when he can’t stop yawning. Defiant, he glares back, and the decision in his head to use boys’ pronouns feels like a quiet rebellion, even if no one else knows.

A month later, at a friend’s house, he cuts his hair. He hasn’t been able to look at himself in the mirror without tears welling in his eyes for weeks, because he doesn’t look like he’s meant to. He looks like a girl, and his long hair is the worst of it. He can dress in boy’s clothes without his parents complaining, because he basically always has to – he can’t play rugby in _pretty clothes_ – so the next thing that he can change about his appearance is the hair. Standing in front of his friend’s mirror, a pair of scissors in his hand and the remains of his old locks in the sink, he feels a savage sense of victory. This is a boy staring back at him: from a mirror that finally does its job of reflecting _him_.

When his friend’s mum sees him, her face goes pale and she drags him from the bathroom to stand next to her while she calls his mum. Olivia doesn’t care about her panic; his hair is short, and it actually looks sort of neat in his opinion. He cares even less when she tidies up his hair for him at his mum’s request – apparently, she’s a hairdresser – because as hard as she tries, she can’t make it look ‘lady-like’.

His mum is less than pleased, of course, and his dad scowls when he gets home. Olivia lifts his chin and meets both sets of accusing eyes with a small, proud smile. Whatever they have to say, he doesn’t care. They can’t stop him anymore. (At least, he hopes they can’t. He really, _really_ hopes.)

“Liv…” his mum sighs. “Why are you doing this?”

“’Cos I’m not a girl,” he tells her, and saying the word is actually uncomfortable, so he changes the phrasing. “I’m a boy.”

He’s always been stubborn, and now it seems to be his biggest advantage as his mum closes her eyes in despair. In his pocket, the paper that he carries with him everywhere, names slowly crossed off the list as he decides that he doesn’t like them for one reason or another, is hidden. He holds to the thought for strength, ignoring the clenching of his stomach, and squares his shoulders.

“Alright,” his dad grits out. “You sit down right now, young lady. This is not going to keep happening.”

Olivia clenches his hands into tight fists and doesn’t sit. Language like this itches at his skin, makes it crawl with discomfort and _wrongness_ and a vulnerability that he hates.

“I’m not a ‘young lady’!”

“For fuck’s –”

“ _Andy_!”

His dad’s jaw tightens.

“Go to your room,” he tells Olivia curtly. “You’re not going to rugby like that.”

“What?” Olivia gapes. “You can’t say that!”

“I can,” his dad corrects. “And I have. Maybe you’ll think twice next time you want to do something stupid.”

Furious, Olivia turns and storms from the room, pausing in the doorway to spin and glare at them.

“I hate you!” he spits, furious.

 _He’s a boy. He’s not –_ not _– a girl. Why can’t they see that? He’s tried telling them – his dad’s told his mum what he said, he knows – and now he’s tried showing them. He doesn’t know what else he can do. He doesn’t know, and it hurts, because he needs them to see it._

He holds his tears of hurt and frustration in until he reaches his room. There, with the door closed behind him, he collapses on his bed as his body shakes silently. He can’t stop his sobs, but he presses his fist against his lips to muffle the whimpers that threaten to escape alongside the salty liquid running freely down his cheeks. He needs them to accept him, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can stay angry. It’s getting so exhausting.

It’s either shouting or crying, though, and he knows which he’d rather do in front of his parents – in front of anyone. (Boys aren’t supposed to cry, so he shouldn’t, because he’s one too, even if no one believes him.)

“Why is she doing this?” he hears his mum on the stairs half an hour later. “I don’t understand. Have we upset her?”

“It’s just a phase,” his dad assures her.

Olivia closes his eyes, drawing his knees into his chest, and forces back the tears that prick at his already-burning eyelids. His head is pounding from the crying he’s done, but he hasn’t dared leave his room for water. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. He doesn’t want anyone to see him at all, because he knows they’ll look at him and think ‘girl’, and he dreads the thought that he’ll have to look them in the eyes and know what they’re thinking – and then pretend that it doesn’t tear open the growing hole in his chest each time.

“What if it’s not?” his mum presses. “What if she – God, what if she decides to try something more drastic –”

“Like what?” his dad sighs. “Look, she’ll get to puberty, and she’ll realise how silly she’s being.”

“God, I hope you’re right…”

Hearing ‘she’ applied to him hurts more than ever, and he has to cover his ears, blocking out the rest of the conversation as he shuts down the panic rising inside him. Shit, _puberty_. He hasn’t even thought about it, but he knows that things are going to start changing. He finally looks like a boy, knows that if he went out on the street in the right clothes, he could get recognised as one, but that won’t last long. Soon, he’ll have _breasts_ – the word by itself makes him cringe, let alone the image of his body – and he won’t be able to hide everything that’s _wrong_ about him anymore.

The thought scares him, so he distracts himself with his list instead. There’s one name that’s been standing out more and more as his favourite, and looking at it now, it’s the only one he can see himself having. Taking a deep breath, he pulls out his pen and rings it decisively, crossing out all the others until it’s the only one left on the page, circled multiple times as it seems to call to him. He can almost hear it, and it sounds _new_ , just like ‘he’ did at first (and still does, since only a few of his closest friends use it), but so much better than anything he could possibly imagine.

 _Owen Farrell_.

Yes, it works. First Olivia O’Loughlin, then Olivia Farrell, and finally, a name that works, that sounds good and comfortable and _his_. Owen Farrell.

“Liv?”

The door pushes open at the same time as his mum whispers his name – his _old_ name, now – and he turns away to hide the puffiness of his eyes. Sighing, his mum settles down on the edge of his mattress, and too late, he remembers that he forgot to pick up the piece of paper.

“…What is this?”

Reaching for it, he tries to take it from her.

“Nothing,” he bites out, sitting up to grab it, but she holds it out of his reach. “Mum, it’s nothing. Just give it back!”

“Why do you have a list of names that you’ve crossed out?”

The tone in his mum’s voice tells him that she’s already guessed the answer, and she doesn’t like it.

“It’s nothing,” he repeats.

“And you’ve circled ‘Owen’. Liv, what…?”

“Don’t call me that,” he blurts out before he’s even thought about his words, and blood rushes to his cheeks immediately as his mum stares at him.

“Don’t call you your _name_?” she shakes her head. “What do you want me to call you, then? _Owen_?”

Humiliation squeezing his chest, he can only nod miserably. Shit, he didn’t want them to know about this; they’ll find a way to take it away from him, just like they’ve taken away everything else as soon as he’s brought it to their attention.

“Andy!” his mum calls immediately. “Get through here!”

Desperately, he wipes at his eyes – he doesn’t want his dad to see that he’s been crying – but he knows it won’t work, and it’s far too late, because his dad frowns as soon as their eyes meet.

“Have you been crying?”

Looking away, _Owen_ sets his jaw.

“No,” he mutters.

“Yes, you have,” his dad sits next to his mum. “Look, Liv –”

“She doesn’t want us to call her that,” his mum laughs slightly hysterically; out of the corner of his blurred vision, Owen sees her show his dad the list.

“She doesn’t – Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

This time, his mum doesn’t bother to scold his dad for swearing. Owen turns his face into his shoulder, away from both of them as he sniffs as quietly as possible. He almost feels sick, hearing ‘she’ so much. It feels like a personal attack, aimed at stripping him of as much of his identity as possible.

“Liv, this needs to _stop_.”

Tears are welling in his eyes once more, and he doesn’t have the energy or the willpower left to hold them back. There aren’t enough to spill over yet, but it won’t be long.

“Why are you doing this to us?” his mum presses, and he hates the desperate, pleading tone of her words, like she’s the one who’s being hurt by this.

“I’m not doing anything to you,” he mutters. “You’re just being stupid.”

They’re not even _trying_ to listen to him. That seems pretty stupid to him.

“Olivia Colleen Farrell, listen to me!” his dad thunders, patience apparently gone. “We have done our best for you from the day you were born, and I think you should be showing a little more gratitude! We worked hard to look after you, and this – this nonsense is _not_ impressing me in the slightest!”

“So, what?” Owen spits. “I should just pretend to be a girl because you were too stupid to use protection and then you didn’t decide to kill me before I was born? Well, maybe you should’ve just aborted me, if I’m that much trouble!”

It only hits him after he says it that, in a way, he actually means it. Every time someone talks to him, every time someone talks _about_ him, it hurts. There doesn’t seem to be a way out, and he doesn’t think he can keep pretending to be fine with it much longer. He doesn’t think he can handle it for another month, let alone the rest of his life. Maybe it _would_ have been better if they hadn’t kept him. Easier for them, certainly, and easier for him.

“Don’t – Don’t be silly, love,” his mum’s voice trembles. “You don’t mean that.”

Shrugging, he stares at his knees and hunches over them, clutching at them tightly as if they’re a lifeline.

“Liv?”

His dad doesn’t sound angry anymore. He almost sounds like he’s begging, actually, and it doesn’t make Owen feel any better.

“That’s not funny, Liv,” his dad continues. “That’s really not – You shouldn’t joke about things like that.”

“I’m not joking,” Owen whispers, and he doesn’t think he means for his parents to hear it, but by the awful, stifling silence that falls, he thinks they do.

“Oh, _god_ …”

“OK,” his dad draws in a shaky breath. “OK. Let’s not do anything rash, alright? Right, Liv?”

Owen doesn’t bother to respond. He’s not Liv, and anyway, if this will get his parents to listen to him… He doesn’t really _plan_ on doing anything, but now he’s thought of it… It’s not like he wants to, but if there isn’t a way to get his parents or anyone else to listen to him… It’s an option, isn’t it? It would hurt less, he thinks, than having to go through puberty and be called _Liv_ and _Olivia_ and _she_ for the rest of his life.

“Why don’t you – Why don’t you tell us more about how you’re feeling?” his dad murmurs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Hey? Try and explain it all to us.”

“I’m not a girl,” Owen tells them stiffly. “I’m a boy.”

He feels, more than sees, his dad deflate.

“But what does that _mean_?” his dad tries anyway.

“It’s like…” Owen trails off, searching for something to explain it properly, then offers hesitantly, “You feel like a boy, right?”

“I –” his dad stops. “I mean, I guess so?”

“And Mum feels like a girl?”

“Yes,” his mum whispers. “Yes, I do.”

“Well…” Owen sucks in a sharp lungful of air. “I feel like a boy. Being called ‘Liv’ and ‘she’ feels… It’s not right.”

“So you want to be called ‘Owen’ and… ‘ _he_ ’?”

A lump has lodged itself firmly in his throat, acid blurring his vision, and as he nods, a single tear slips out, followed quickly by a second.

“…And you really think you’re a boy?”

Swiping desperately at his eyes, Owen shakes his head; the rough drag of his sleeve doesn’t stop the tears from spilling over.

“I _am_ a boy,” he chokes out. “I _am_.”

“Al – Alright,” his dad murmurs, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing. “You’re a boy. You’re – You’re our son. Just don’t – Don’t ever _think_ about taking your own life, you hear me? It’s not better. It’s not a solution to anything. Promise me you’ll at least come and talk to us if you ever want to, yeah? Promise me – Promise me… Owen.”

Hearing his new name from his dad is like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from him – but in the best possible way. Frantically, he nods, and he can’t stop the tears from falling thicker and faster as he reaches for his dad and wraps him in a grateful hug.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice hitching with sobs. “Thank you so much…”

**Author's Note:**

> I sorta want to do a follow up to this where Andy and Colleen actually grow to accept Owen's identity rather than just support him out of fear for his life... And maybe explore the continuing struggles? At the same time, the exact logistics of Owen being trans don't exactly check out, at least not the way I've written it, so...
> 
> I've also got some thoughts about Christmas and certain, er, times of the month, which I've written a bit about, and I'd like to explore how coaches/other players could support him or cause problems, and look at both the difficulties that would be specific to him and more general trans problems (which means more dysphoria, so yay, and the wonderful thing which is transphobia! Sorry, Owen. Also, please excuse the sarcasm. I don't really do 100% honesty about how shit being trans can be. Gotta keep up that *fabulous* impression to trick young kids into being indoctrinated under The Gay Agenda.) 
> 
> It's 00:33, and I'm still writing. What is wrong with me? Anyone have anything they want to see in writing? Any pairings (preferably with Owen in, because that's my speciality, but I could give something else a go...?), anything that you want to see in either this or YBWM... On that note, I'm thinking that this one will stick with Georgie as far as Owen's partner is concerned, because I always feel bad for the real partners of people in RPF, and I'd also like to explore how they deal with societal pressure to have children, and their own desire for kids, and... yeah. 
> 
> I've left this open to non-users because... y'know... Before I was a user, this sort of thing would've helped me so much, but I wouldn't be able to see it if it were private, so... Just on the off-chance, really. Also, I used the name 'Olivia' because... It has the same first letter as Owen, to be honest. I know a lot of trans people go for something completely different, but I found a lot of security in my name having links to my dead name, because it made me feel like it was normal, and not some sort of novelty thing. (OK, so my middle name is a very rare name and the only person I know with it is a brilliant rugby player. Fite me.)


End file.
